


Anchor Light

by Pigeon



Series: Afloat and Asunder [5]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigeon/pseuds/Pigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making sense of what was. Or not. Whichever the case may be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchor Light

_It’s too late for come backs  
And I’ve been wrong before  
Now I need  
I need no more  
Except for you  
Making up the sides_  
\- When Evil Comes - Ocean Colour Scene

  
The needle pierces Will’s skin again, a fresh bead of blood welling up.

He is folded over a barrel, shirt stripped off, breeches tugged scandalously low over thin hips. The sharp metal hoop digs into his belly, and his lower back is exposed and running with blood and ink.

~*~

Jack spends some time in the brig every night.

He never enters until he’s at least half a bottle of rum inside him.

And never stays beyond the calling of the watch.

~*~

In all honesty Will doesn’t know if he’s been in this tavern before.

The rum all tastes alike, weak and watered down, the tables are lopsided, the bartenders gruff, the clientele dirty, and the whores…

Tired.

Pathetic.

Joyless.

~*~

At first conversations with Bootstrap follow nonsensical trails, full of veiled meanings and fantasy.

Jack, who has more than a little madness lurking deep in his bones, is wearied by them and finds his head grows achy and pained.

~*~

At night Will goes to sleep on his stomach. His back has scabbed over and itches like the devil. The sheets are rough and scratchy and thick with sweat and desire.

He wakes curled over on his side, knees tucked up tight against his chest, his cheeks damp, and a hard knot choking him in his throat.

~*~

Slowly reason creeps and ebbs and flows through and past Bill.

Some nights he sings.

Some nights he curses God and calls upon devils.

Some nights he looks at Jack and asks him of the changing of the world.

And sometimes Jack will twist his features into a smile and tell his old friend of a brave, stupid, loyal, beautiful lad.

And Bill will grow quiet and consider his grown up son.

~*~

Beneath powder and paint Will can see purpled, black, greenish bruises and broken veins.

Beneath their dresses they must all look the same; bodies pale, scarred, ugly.

Beneath their rouged smiles he sees his mother.

~*~

“His mother writes me.” Bill smiles, pushing stiff matted hair from his face. “His mother writes me, says he’s bright and good. Says his prayers. Learns his lessons.”

“I’m sure he did,” Jack replies.

“Handsome woman, Nell. But not given much to frivolity and the like. He’ll favour her I should think, my son.” Bill rubs his knuckles as if plagued by arthritis. “Must be six or so. I forget. Bonny boy. I’ll visit him some-when. Maybe this year. Maybe I’ll get him a toy sword for his birthday.”

Jack stares hard at his friend. “You should have done that. Should have made a fuss of him, spoilt him, sat him on yer knee, mate.” He swigs from the flask his hand is wrapped tight about. “You stupid bloody bastard.”

“I’ll take him down to the docks, show him the ships. He’ll like that. Maybe he’ll make a sailor one day, not a pirate though.” Bootstrap frowns. “Won’t let that happen. Have him be honest an’ upright instead.”

Jack shuts his eyes.

~*~

At night Will dreams of Jack.

At night he dreams of Jack kissing him, or fucking him, or hitting him.

Those are the good dreams.

~*~

“Tell me,” Jack begins another night. “Tell me, did you ever actually see him? When he was a squalling babe? Did you go visit, tup his mum, and hold him for a little while? Did you never go make the fucking effort, mate?”

Bill stares past him. “The ocean is full of strange creatures,” he replies, and then falls silent for the rest of the night.

~*~

He's been here near a fortnight but Will has yet to make it past the docks.

Days are spent watching the sea or slumped in taverns, fending off whores and drinking away what little money he has, and pretending that he'll find his courage tomorrow.

He can't quite remember the exact way to his old home, the cramped, stuffy garret he shared with his mum, but he knows his feet would find the way if he could just take that one step.

~*~

“Tell me of him,” Bill leans forward, face close to the bars.

“What is it you want to know?”

Bill presses closer. “Did he grow up right? Grow up strong an’ good? Is he able to fend for himself?”

Jack takes a breath. “He’s a good boy. A good man.” The words feel awkward in his mouth, heavy and unwieldy. “And if he isn’t able to look after himself, well, we’re all a bit fucked, ain’t we.”

~*~

The bad dreams are the ones where Jack won't touch him.

Not even in anger.

~*~

Jack sits and stares and waits for Bill’s latest ravings to finish.

He can hear the crew above laughing and yelling, can hear the splash of waves against the hull, can hear the first of the gulls circling high overhead.

Time is growing short.

“We make our own hell,” Bill declares.

Jack silently agrees.

~*~

The world has changed, all tilted on its axis, and gone askew, but Bristol is just as Will recalls.

Full of sailors and the cry of fishermen selling their wares and a taste of soot and ashes in his mouth.

And he sometimes feels he is drowning.

And he sometimes feels the fierce, aching-

 _…almost arousing_

 _…almost hot and sweat-damp and burning_

 _…almost delicious, near-release, and laced with pain_

-pressure of water on his chest.

And the temptation to give in and be washed away and give up the fight grows.

And he wonders if it would be so very hard to be a whore and let his body be used and bought and owned.

~*~

When Jack arrives it has been two and half weeks since Will docked in Bristol and almost three months since he left the _Pearl_ with a smile and murmured " _I'll be back_ ".

When Jack arrives Will is beyond drunk, and at Jack's suggestion that they find a bed to retire to, Will replies-

" _And how much will you pay me? How much am I worth?_ "

~*~

Jack pushes back the curls from Will's face.

The boy is pale and thin and deep shadows darken and highlight the composition of his bones.

He looks sickly and Jack knows it must be days, if not weeks, since he ate a proper meal.

He strips Will of his clothes slowly. Peeling away soiled linen, exposing the flesh he has come to know and has kissed and stroked and caressed a thousand and one times.

He pauses as he uncovers the fluid lines of ink that span the small of the boy's back. He brushes a hesitant finger over white and pinkened and darkest blue. For a moment he cannot read what the letters of the tattoo form, it is just a jumble of blemishes, a disfigurement, and he wants to scour his Will clean and pure again.

Then…

Then the tattoo becomes words and sentences and language and a laugh/cough/sob is torn from his throat.

~*~

The boy's sleep is less disturbed than he'd feared.

A couple times he feels the tension rise and the breath shorten, but there are no cries or thrashings, and as he pulls Will closer, Jack feels himself being held tight enough to bruise.

~*~

Jack has a vivid imagination.

He believes in all manner of possibilities and knows Mistress Fortune to be a devious bitch.

For him to have been in Port Royal had been a stroke of luck.

As had crossing swords with Will…

Who happened to be the long lost son of a good friend…

Whose blood happened to be needed to lift the curse…

Who happened to love the girlie who'd got herself kidnapped…

Ad infinitum.  
~*~

As dawn breaks Jack takes a seat by the window.

England is not where he wants to be.

England is where he has managed to avoid for the last many a year.

But England is where Will is, and that just says it all.

~*~

Jack has a vivid imagination.

If the winds had sent him elsewhere, east instead of west…

If he had found a different blacksmith's, or remembered to pick up his hat…

If Will hadn't come to the Caribbean…

Or been rescued by Miss 'Lizbeth…

What might not have ever been.

~*~

Fishermen scurry to their boats and crowds gather on the jetties.

The mist is fine and pale as smoke. And seagulls screech loudly. And the last of the drunks stagger home.

~*~

Jack has a vivid imagination.

And if all that had not been-

Where would Will be now?

A labourer? A wretch on the streets? A whore?

And if all that had not been-

Where would Jack be now?

Shipless? Dying slow of drink and disappointment? Hung and rotting?

~*~

The boy begins to stir.

Jack doesn't shift from his seat by the window. He swipes heavy condensation from the pane. He listens to Will's soft groans and mumbles.

"Anything you want to say to me, luv?" He pitches his voice low, mindful of the pain hangovers bring.

"Huh?" The boy rolls onto his back, soiled bedsheet twisting about his bare legs. "Jack?" He blinks slowly, rubbing at his eyes.

"That's right, Will. I came upon you last night, remember?"

"I… No, not really." He struggles up to a seated position. "Are you angry at me?"

Jack stands. Walks across to the bed. Sits on the edge.

"Well?"

Jack rests a hand on the boy's narrow ankle. "No, I'm not cross."

"Then what?" Will lies back down, watching Jack from under lowered lashes. His breath catches a little in his throat, and he worries at his lower lip. "Jack, please…?"

Hand sliding, skimming, stealing up the boy's leg, Jack asks, "Were you ever going to come back, Will? Did you plan on coming home?"

~*~

A week before, Will had stood on the mud-slicked street, rain falling heavy and cold on him.

A man had walked up to him with a smile and a wink.

Had offered him a few coins.

Had waited impatiently for an answer.

~*~

"Yes." Will takes no time to think about Jack's question. "Yes. I swear, Jack. I was going to return."

~*~

A week before, Will had been tempted to acquiesce, to follow this stranger, to lean against an alley wall, or to kneel, and rent his body.

~*~

"I…" They've never said words of love, not really, not in honest plain English. "I wouldn't leave you. I promise you, Jack." His chest hurts a little, burdened with confessions, aching under the load.

"I won't have any lies from you, Will." Jack focuses on the lad's skinny torso, the muscle tone wasting away, he looks at the concave stomach and dip of navel, trains his eye on jagged, bony hips. "It's no betrayal if you don't lie."

"Jack… _Believe_ me."

He lets himself smile, "Aye, luv, of course."

~*~

A week before, Will had hesitated for a moment, then shaken his head and moved off.

~*~

"I missed you," the boy whispers.

Jack nods, not answering as he lets his hands begin a slow glide across cool flesh. He bats Will away when the boy reaches up to tug at his clothing, shushing him lightly beneath his breath. Up and down long, lean legs his touch travels, curling around thighs and calves, feather-light over pale feet, then flanks, sinewy arms, broad shoulders.

And Will trembles slightly.

Caressing with fingertips each rib and curl of muscle. Brushing over a thousand minor imperfections, faded scars and freckles. Tripping up a long fragile throat. Dancing over cheekbones. Resting on full lips.

A couple light nudges and he has Will rolling over onto his front and then he begins again, letting his hands map the slope of the lad's back, the curve of buttocks, stretch of legs.

He drops a kiss on the words tattooed on the pure of the boy's back. Latin words. Religious words. Words that form The Liturgy and Jack has not heard in many a decade. "This we will have to talk about, darlin'."

"Yes…" Will stutters.

"Good. Right then," he drops a few more careless kisses; one to shoulder, one to hip, one at the crease where thigh meets backside.

And this is the moment.

This is the moment when he's meant to take things further.

Kiss the boy.

Take his cock in hand.

Make him gasp.

Part the boy's legs, or invite him to his own legs spread wide.

Jack shuts his eyes.

"What would you have me do, luv?"

~*~

Blindfold and bonds.

Jack has a long history with silk and leather and metal.

Will has no history at all but for Jack.

~*~

The touches have stopped and Will's skin tingles, bereft. "Jack?"

"What would you have me do?"

He can't think what to answer for a moment.

He can't think.

Jack is not touching him, and he can't think how to make this right, make it how it once was.

"I asked you a question, my sweet William. Because I swear, lad, I've no thought as to what I should do."

 _There_ , a ghostly touch to his hair.

"Should I kiss you, fuck you, burn away all this misery?"

And another, a brush against the back of his neck for the briefest of moments.

"Or should I talk. Just talk to you. Tell you about your father perhaps."

Shoulder.

Spine.

Hip.

"Do you wonder how he fares, luv? Or have you driven him from your mind?"

"I…" Fingers grazing over _delicate…intimate…private_ skin and muscle and his breath stutters.

"Maybe I should treat you like the whore you think you are. Use you. Forget you."

~*~

Jack takes pleasure in whatever form it comes in- tied up, tied down, laced with pain, sweet and simple.

Will is eager and enthusiastic and entirely confounded by new sensations.

Blindfold him and he will gasp and shudder at every little breath/touch/thrust.

Lash him to the bed and he'll shake and thrash. Moan and tug at his bindings. Grit his teeth and sweat.

Try both and he just panics.

~*~

"No."

"No, what, luv?" Jack starts a countdown in his head. He wants the boy. His blood is up, and his flesh is heated though a faint nausea still stirs his stomach.

Will is beautiful and naked and laid out before him.

"No. I don't want that." The lad pauses, all whispered words and stammered breaths. "I don't want _you_ like that."

"How do you want me, then?" Will is beautiful and naked. Will is beautiful and naked but he won't have this be like last time, with blood spilt and tainted pleasure.

Will rolls onto his back, all pale skin, sharp angles, and planes. "Just as you. As it was. Before."

Jack smiles, strokes the boy's face, and looks him in the eye. "But that won't ever happen, mate. Can't ever recapture what was, can only capture the here and the now of it. So, the question is- will you accept that, or will you keep on fighting and drowning and losing?"

Will glances off for a moment. "That doesn't sound like much of an option."

"You'd be surprised how many men take it."

Leaning up on his elbows, Will shakes his head before kissing Jack fully, softly, heatedly on the mouth, "No, I don't think I would be."


End file.
